


A Lesson on Gravity

by Chopsticks



Series: Spring on Jupiter [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon characters with kids, Humor, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Post-Series, Rekindling an old love, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chopsticks/pseuds/Chopsticks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the Second Omnic Crisis, Commander Jesse McCree is the current face of Overwatch, much to his own chagrin. However, there is little time to complain when his days are filled with slews of meetings, a constant threat of monkeys falling from the moon, and memories of an ex-boyfriend that just won't leave him be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a oneshot evolved like a repressed Magikarp to become this multi-chapter thing that will eventually be part of a larger series. (Send help.) Tags are subject to change as we move along.
> 
> DPKO = Department of Peacekeeping Operations, part of the United Nations.

Geneva at midday on the cusp of summer: it’s a dazzling sight from up high. At an altitude of 16,000 feet, the lattice of silver streets appear to cut through the jewel-tone blocks of the city, densely hugging the long sapphire fingertip of Lac Léman and petering out at the snow-capped borders of France. With a sharp eye, one can just make out the white speck of the Palace of Nations glinting on the lake’s western edge and, due east across the water, the Overwatch Global Headquarters is its twin, dimpling the curve of the shore like two diamond-bright beacons.

The high-altitude military aircraft that passes directly above the Swiss capital goes unnoticed. Anyone looking up at this hour would be blinded by the sun. Anyone listening would find the plane’s hum drowned out among the seasonal cicadas.

Even less noticeable to any potential observer is the solitary, armoured figure that drops from the aircraft, free-falling to the lake at two hundred kilometres per hour.

A full descent takes less than two minutes at this speed; the horizon shrinks rapidly as the figure falls. One minute into the drop, its trajectory changes, slanting conclusively eastwards. Upon entering airspace above the Overwatch HQ, it unfolds a set of mechanical wings, cutting through the air with adjusted precision, and heads straight towards its target: a large, open window facing the lake at the top floor of the headquarters’ central building.

In an explosion of smoke and burning fuel, the figure hurls through the opening. The tall french doors rattle in the shockwave, their flank of curtains gusting open like sails in a storm. In the middle of the room, a stack of holopads on the long mahogany desk flies off and scatters like a deck of cards. There is a loud _THUD_ , and the entire office quakes as the visitor hits the marble floor, its form crouched low, bracing against the force of its rapid deceleration.

The only other occupant of the room startles awake and jumps up from his reclined leather chair on the other side of the desk. Rubbing his eyes, he peers blearily through the dissipating smoke.

“Mother of god… You just about gave me a goddamn heart attack! Would it kill you to use the door, Fareeha?”

Standing up, Captain Fareeha Amari unclasps her flight suit helmet and pulls it off her head, then shakes out her jet-black bob. Turning to her commanding officer, she grins and makes a sharp salute.

“Rise and shine, Commander. You left your window open, so I thought I might as well report in right away. It’s about time you woke up.”

Waking up is the last thing he wants to do, and a grouchy, sleep-deprived Jesse McCree is a sight to behold. The man has been sleeping in the office. His ivory dress shirt is wrinkled in every direction, and a hint of his old beard from bygone days is starting to emerge along his normally shaven jawline. Unamused by his officer’s pep, he gives a petulant scowl.

“Can’t a guy take a nap? Been up since four in the morning for a call with Beijing.” The man rakes a hand through his matted brown hair and yawns widely. “I tell ya: these time zones will be the death of me. Next time anybody wants a teleconference, it’ll be on _my_ schedule.”

“Mm-hm,” Fareeha hums in a lilt reserved for these ‘that’s nice dear’ moments. She places down her helmet on McCree’s desk and begins gathering up the holopads strewn across the floor. “You’re not the only one, Jesse. I’ve been up just as early, flying back from Istanbul, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep en route. I brought you lunch, though, by the way. Lamb _döner_ , from their local market.”

A metal food canister clanks down in front of him. McCree unbuckles it and, an instant, he forgives everything. “Oh… bless your heart, Fae.” Without a second thought, he pulls out the sandwich and takes a large bite. It’s lukewarm, but no less heavenly. “Dish righ’ ‘ere ish why you’re my Shecond-in-Command.”

Fareeha raises an eyebrow. “I sincerely hope that’s not the only reason.”

“You’re also a doll for lettin’ me eat when you give your reports. So, what’s the low-down on Turkey?”

“The first stage of the peacekeeping mission went about as smoothly as we had hoped,” she starts, settling down on the edge of his desk. “Obviously, Overwatch’s involvement has so far been minimal, with the DPKO taking the reins for the most part during civil altercations. But the general population has responded well to our appearance, mostly symbolic as it may be. You were right: the people there look up to a handful of our agents more than the mass of UN peacekeepers. You should have seen the look on the DPKO lead’s face when my team arrived at the protests outside the Hagia Sophia...”

McCree tries to give his full attention to the words coming out of Captain Amari’s mouth. He really does. But somewhere between the savoury fold of the slightly soggy pita, his mind starts to drift, and then wanders, lost among the yogurt dressing. He makes periodic noises of generic acknowledgement on instinct in between mouthfuls, but his mind is too busy making a solemn declaration with all the authority vested in him as the Commander of Overwatch that _this is the best damn thing I’ve eaten all week_.

Across the table, his SIC pauses mid-sentence. “...Have you been listening to anything I just said?”

He swallows. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

Slowly, McCree puts down the empty paper wrapper. _That disappeared quickly._ He burps once, unbidden, and then coughs. “Well, ah... That was swell. Both the report and the food, of course. Thank you.”

Fareeha puts her palms on the desk and leans towards him. The expression of piercing scrutiny she gives him is eerily reminiscent of her mother; it dawns on McCree that he is starting to understand what Jack Morrison probably went through during his days in office with an Amari at his side. Searching his eyes, she demands, “What time is it?”

Bewildered, McCree blinks and looks down at his wristwatch.

“It's… twelve pee-em. Do you need to be somewhere?”

Fareeha sighs, eyebrows knitting together. She looks positively crestfallen. “Oh, _Jesse…_ ”

If there is one thing McCree fears above all else, it is a sad woman; such creatures are a nightmare to decipher, and half of the time they insist on being ‘fine.’ What makes it worse is this woman right now is Fareeha Amari, whose dark doe eyes are unbearably soulful when upset. Not to mention, a sad Fareeha also brings back haunting memories of the time he accidentally sat on her cardboard rocket launcher when she was a kid. The girl cried for _hours,_ and his seventeen-year-old self felt like a piece of shit until he put together a new one for her.

This time, though, McCree isn’t quite sure what he did wrong. Regardless, he walks around the perimeter of the desk and wraps his arms around her chunky armour in an awkward attempt at a hug. She leans in, chestpiece digging into his spleen, but he doesn’t dare move.

“Jesse,” she says again, in a tone that continues to barb his conscience. “You’ve really changed.”

 _Change_ . He considers the word. _Change_ is likely a huge understatement. It has been nearly four years since he was inducted into this office. Five years since the end of the Second Omnic Crisis. At least six years since he last had a proper smoke. _And far too long since I last saw Him_ , McCree thinks. But he stops himself in time before his memory wanders too far down _that_ particular path.

Now, at the age of forty-five, Jesse McCree admits that yes, he probably has changed, and that no, he isn’t completely pleased with how it all turned out.

Sighing, he pats Fareeha’s head once and then draws back. “We all changed, Fae. But all things considered, we’re in a good place.”

“I’m not so worried about the others. Mostly just you.”

“I know what I’m doin’.”

“I hope so.” Then, her voice lowers, as if sharing a secret. “Are you meeting up with Winston in Washington, DC next week?”

“... Yeah. I am.”

At last, she smiles again. “It will do you good to get out of Geneva. And you really ought to take this chance to have a proper break for once. Jack’s birthday dinner is in the same week - go visit him in Indiana. I _am_ capable of holding the fort while you’re away, you know.”

“I know.” McCree scratches the back of his head. “But isn’t the party going to be mostly with the retired old coots? I mean - uh, no offence to your mother.”

Her eyes roll. “Technically, everyone from our old team is invited, even if a lot of us can’t make it. It’s not only for the ‘old coots.’ Also…” There is a hesitant pause, and then she continues with an air of too much nonchalance: “I heard from Genji that Hanzo will be there too.”

And there it goes. The caution-taped and bolted-down gate to the most dangerous fork of his thoughts crashes open with a single word.

“You don’t say…” McCree murmurs. He turns around and walks to the open window, trying to distract himself with the panorama of the sun-drenched Swiss landscape and failing spectacularly. His stomach is in knots. Damn the Japanese man for still having this effect on him after all these years.

“Promise me you’ll go.”

“I’ll think about it, Captain.”

Taking the hint, Fareeha is heard walking to the double doors on the opposite side of the room, metal soles clacking away on the marble. “I take my leave, then. Get some rest. Commander.”

McCree doesn’t turn around, simply grunts his goodbye. He hears his SIC leave, and then the door clicks shut, locking him in. Alone in his office, once again.

He continues to stare outside, chewing on his lip in a sad substitute for an old oral fixation. His right hand digs into the pocket of his grey slacks, but it finds no lighter, only a phone.

With trepidation, he pulls it out and turns on the screen. Twenty-one new e-mails, two missed calls, and a calendar alert about a meeting with the new UN Secretary in four hours. It’s the usual clamour from self-important officials and bureaucrats with long, cascading titles who he would preferably never associate with given the privilege of an ordinary person. He throws a glare out the window, across the water, to where the Palace of Nations shines, omniscient, like another bright white notification light. Meeting at four o’clock sharp. Dinner gala follows at six. Wear the commander’s formal uniform. Smile for the shutterbugs.

Ignoring all the unread messages, McCree rapidly scrolls through his long list of contacts, slowing at ‘S,’ and then selects the number of the one person on his mind before his inner voice of reason can catch up to him with cold feet.

He holds his breath, blood pounding in his ears. The line connects on the fifth ring.

“Hello, Jesse?”

That voice. _It’s been too long._ Just the sound of the other man’s throaty and lightly accented English is enough to make his world a little better. He exhales, a smile breaking on his face.

“Hey. How’re ya doing, Hanzo?”

“Good...” There is a pause, and McCree hears the sound of a sliding door close before Hanzo continues. “You are calling at a strange time.”

The commander sinks back into his leather chair and spins it in a half-circle to bask in the warm sun. _I couldn’t help thinking about you, bastard._ He closes his eyes. “Figured you’d be at home now at…” he does the mental math, “... eight o’clock. Since I’ll be even busier later today, I thought I’d call during my lunch to catch up. It’s been, what? Two months?” Fifty-nine is the exact number of days since they last spoke, but he isn’t going to spill that embarrassing level of detail.

“Mm. Something like that. My apologies. I have been busy at the Watchpoint.”

“Tell me about it. It’s been the absolute worst here. How is Okinawa holdin’ up these days?”

“I had my junior officer forward a report to you last week. Did you not read it?”

“Oh.” McCree sifts through his short-term memory, vaguely remembering that particular wall of text. “Yeah. But I guess what I mean is… well, how’re _you_ holdin’ up?”

“As I have already said: good.” The other man sighs. “Why don’t you ramble about how _you_ are doing, Jesse, and _I_ will listen. It usually ends up that way.”

“Right.” McCree chuckles, feeling sheepish. Briefly, he doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t sure there’s a proper way to tell an old flame that you miss them without it getting a bit weird, even if you’ve continued to be friends since then. What makes it worse are the memories that geyser to the surface of his mind like the bubbles of a shaken champagne bottle. Laying here with Hanzo’s voice in his ear, it’s too easy to picture in his mind’s eye the way the Japanese man looked six years ago, sweat-soaked and buck naked in his bed, pale skin glowing like fire in the Mediterranean sun, and the image of those eyes that turned to him, dark and wicked…

 _A toast,_ he thinks, _to Jesse ‘Just-call-me-a-schoolgirl’ McCree: the middle-aged man who’s_ still _not over his ex after six years._

McCree swallows and opens his eyes. “I… uhhm…” he tries. He shifts in his chair, trying to cold-shower the images in his brain with other things.

“Tell me what you are doing today,” Hanzo prompts, as if sensing McCree’s struggle to put together an intelligible sentence.

“Well...” McCree begins, rubbing the stubble along his chin, “Ah, right. Had an early morning call with the president of Lucheng Interstellar. They wanted to chat with me all private-like before the big meet-up in Washington next week. Dunno why, though. What they want and what NASA wants sound like almost the exact same thing, except China seems to prefer more scientists over more soldiers for the team going to the moon. To be honest, Lucheng should’ve just talked to Winston, and I should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Have you decided yet how much Overwatch is getting involved in this mission?”

“No, not yet. I’m saving that for after the meeting. This is a pretty big deal, and I want to hear what all the sides have to say.”

“A wise choice,” Hanzo replies, and McCree’s heart leaps, recognizing the soft smile in that voice.

“Wish you were here,” he blurts. Then, rebounding from the slip-up, he adds, “to watch me make a fool of myself tonight. At the UN’s dinner gala thing. They’re swearing in the new Secretary, and apparently that’s something I need to be a part of. It’ll be a long-ass evening of fingernail-sized _hors d'oeuvres_ and small talk.”

Hanzo laughs quietly. McCree feels himself melt a little bit into the chair. “You are doing well, Commander, if they now willingly invite you to these functions.”

“Naw, I’m not cut out for this, Hanzo. It still boggles my mind every day that I’m sitting here in this fancy room like an important person. It could’ve just as easily have been someone else, even you.” He shakes his head, as if the gilded room could just _go away_ if he believes hard enough. But, depressingly, nothing changes. The only upside to the situation is that the captain of Watchpoint: Okinawa seems to be in a good mood today, even if he is half a world away and McCree could only hypothesize the shape of his smile.

“You had much more history with Overwatch. I would have nominated you as well if it was my choice.”

The incumbent commander swivels his chair to look up at a portrait of Strike-Commander Jack Morrison - immortalized as his younger, blonder self - mounted high above on an alabaster wall. “I’m no Jack,” he replies. “Not a born leader like him, or even Gabriel. We were all there in the last fight, Hanzo. We were all equally important. But it’s nearly the twenty-second century and the world’s still racist. The UN wanted another archetypical posterboy for the media releases, and I just happened to be the whitest and male-est member of the strike team who didn’t retire. You know it as well as I do.”

“Well, I have certainly seen you everywhere on those media releases. You shave now. And you have less of that awful cowboy accent.”

“Hey!” McCree puts a palm to his face and stifles a groan of mortification. “That’s not me. That’s my goddamn publicist wrangling me by a noose.”

“I am just pointing out that you are looking presentable for once in your-”

Hanzo stops. There is a sharp, high-pitched cry in the background, and McCree can hear Hanzo’s quick footsteps on a wooden floor. “One moment.” Hanzo’s phone makes a loud thumping noise on what sounds like a table, and then the footfalls fade away into another room.

McCree waits, chewing on his lower lip and tapping the chair’s armrest. But before too long, the sound of feet return, and in greater numbers. He hears the phone being lifted up again.

“Hey. That was Kimi and Ken waking up,” Hanzo explains. “The children heard me speaking in English, and now they want to say hi to their uncle.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” McCree crows, beaming and sitting up straight at the desk. “Put this call on video this instant, Captain Shimada, so I can actually _see_ the tykes. That’s an order.”

He pulls the phone from his ear and fiddles with the camera settings on the screen while Hanzo sets up the video call on the other end. Moments later, an image appears: two identical, chubby faces with dark, almond-shaped eyes crowd the screen, giggling with delight.

 _“Yankee ojisan!!”_ the three-year-old twins chorus, clapping and pointing at the camera.

Holding his phone at eye level, McCree waves back and winks. “Kon-ni-chi-wa! O-gen-ki-de-su-ka?”

Kimi and Ken dissolve into peals of laughter and piping Japanese. Behind them, their father peers down at the camera as well. He’s wearing a casual, slate-grey robe, his hair pulled back into a short ponytail as usual, and McCree finally sees the expression on his face: Hanzo looks _happy_.

“Your Japanese is terrible, as always,” the other man teases. “I can barely understand you, _gaijin_.”

“Uh, well…” McCree says, blinking and finding his voice again. “That’s the extent of my fluency, I’m afraid. Oh, that and... _Rikimaru miso ramen!!_ ” He finger-guns at the camera.

 _“Miso ramen! Miso ramen!”_ the twins echo, throwing up their hands and jumping in excitement. _“Rikimaru miso ramen!”_

Hanzo says something sternly in Japanese. The kids stop their bouncing off the walls to sit back down in front of the camera, still babbling cheerfully to each other. “I am sorry. They are both very energetic tonight. It will take me a while to get them to sleep again.”

McCree simply laughs. “I don’t mind at all. Is it just you tonight?”

“Yes. Noriko will be up late preparing for a trial at the courthouse.”

“Alright.” He sighs, and then gives the three Shimadas a wave. “You take care of yourself, Hanzo. I won’t keep you. Give Noriko and the kids my love.”

“Wait.” Hanzo picks up the phone, and the kids disappear from view with a string of hushed _sayonara’s_. Only Hanzo remains on the screen, drawing McCree’s rapt attention like a magnet. “I will be visiting Morrison’s place next Friday. Will I see you there?”

Fareeha’s words from earlier suddenly jolt through him: _‘Promise me you’ll go.’_ In his distraction, McCree almost forgot about Jack’s birthday dinner.

A dangerous, addicting sensation builds in his chest, and it spreads, warm and tight, all the way to his fingertips where he cradles the image of Hanzo Shimada in his palm. The other man waits patiently for his answer, but under the camera lens, the silence speaks volumes as Hanzo holds his gaze with unblinking eyes that seem to _dare_ him to say no.

“I’ll be there,” McCree decides on the spot. “You can count on it.”

Hanzo gives him a small smile, satisfied. “I will see you then. Goodnight, Jesse.”

“See you again soon, partner.”

The call ends. The screen blinks to black.

McCree drops his phone gingerly on his desk and then collapses back in the leather chair, his heart percussive with adrenalin, feeling as exhausted as a long-distance runner. How the other man still does this to him, he’ll never know. Staring at the ceiling, he wonders just how much longer it’ll take before he stops _wanting_ the untouchable, married man.

Hanzo has a family now; he is _happy_ \- it’s as plain as day. Come hell or high water, McCree knows that he is loathe to do anything that could compromise that rare and coveted emotion. Guilty, he suddenly wants to kick himself - to kick that petty, selfish part of himself that doubted and trivialized Hanzo’s capacity to walk away when neither of them wanted to break up. But that's exactly what Hanzo managed to do, looking no worse for wear, leaving McCree behind and finding a different sort of happiness without him. Those months curled up in bed together in Gibraltar suddenly seem like lifetimes ago. _He’s not the same Hanzo anymore_ , _and I’m not the same Jesse. We’ve both changed._

On the mahogany desk, his phone beeps another plaintive reminder for him to read his new messages. McCree's eyes travel down to its flashing light, and then, slowly, they move around the four walls of his office, and then beyond the window, past the water, above the distant mountains, finally resting at where the pale sliver of the daytime moon dents the sky. Another reminder of things to come.

_It's time to move on._

 


	2. Satellites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cranked this one out a bit quicker than I planned, but I hope this update will compensate for me being very busy for much of the next month or so.
> 
> WHO = World Health Organization.

Over the course of the last four years, Commander Jesse McCree has learned to appreciate a few perks that come with his job. He can admit that it’s nice to be your own boss, command respect, receive top-notch beck-and-call service, and be provided with an endless number of clean, warm socks. These are the little touches make his hectic days marginally more bearable. Arguably, the biggest blessing is the plentiful supply of excellent coffee imported to Geneva from around the world. One hundred percent premium Numbanian roast is a particular boon at any time of day, as long as it’s boiling hot and paired with enough brown sugar to make his mental conscience cry about type 2 diabetes in a tiny voice resembling Angela Zeigler.

Tonight, the coffee being served in the main ballroom of the Palace of Nations is similarly good. McCree can smell it. _Almost_ taste it. He stands at the beverage table, holding the warm, aromatic mug in his hands, yearning for that scalding chug. But the two-dozen phrases on the condiment machine’s holoscreen proves to be too confounding for him to continue his quest for the perfect cup of joe.

“For chrissakes,” he laments in a frustrated mutter. “Which one is the goddamn _sugar?_ ”

His assistant and omnilingual interpreter, Hubert, slides into his peripheral vision and joins him in front of the condiment panel. The black-suited omnic scans the list with his singular blue eye in earnest.

“Ah, Commander, sir... This appears to be a machine designed to dispense a variety of what one may generally classify as _sweetening agents_ ,” Hubert supplies unhelpfully in a tinny voice. “They range from the natural caloric to the artificial non-caloric in both solid and liquid forms. Should you specify your preference, I may assist in identifying the one most suited to your taste. Alternatively, I may compare their individual nutritional values with the dietary recommendations of your doctor and determine the healthiest choice over the most palatable...”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Hubert,” McCree replies, waving one hand. “What in tarnation is even supposed to be _Stevia?_ Isn’t that a Russian actress’s name?”

“Actually, sir, stevia is a calorie-free, natural herbal sweetener derived from the _Stevia rebaudiana_ plant. Its molecular structure is neither akin to brown sugar nor resembling any Russian actress, I am afraid, though the herb is quite beneficial for a low-calorie diet.”

“...Never mind. How ‘bout you just _please_ tell me which one is the regular brown sugar.”

The blue glow of the omnic’s eye flickers in anxious thought. “Um. I am afraid there are seven options in total on the list that fall within the parameters of ‘brown sugar,’ sir. Might I ask for you to be more specific?”

The commander groans, then shoves his mug under the machine’s stainless steel nozzle. “Just… pick the most normal of the brown sugars for me, Hubert. I beg ya. I just want my cup of decaf before we leave. It’s been a long day, and I don’t need to deal with the mystery of the sugar buffet, of all things.”

‘Long day’ doesn’t even begin to describe it, McCree thinks, as his assistant begins to mercifully push buttons on the holoscreen. He scouts around the brightly-lit ballroom. The dinner reception is still going strong even after the end of a lavish, three-course dessert. Most of the guests are still here, milling about under the chandeliers in small groups and chattering away in the same cheerful, courtly tones between sips of chardonnay and cookie-cutter laughter. Across the room, he spies himself in a large mirror spanning the opposite wall, where the royal blue of his Overwatch commander’s uniform stands out vividly in the shifting sea of formal black.

As much as McCree has dreaded the attention that has been following him for a good part of the gala, he’s pleased that he looks _good_ at least. The hip length, double-breasted jacket fits him just right, its gold buttons and festoon of medals gleaming from a perfect polish. Although devoid of any cheeky acronym, the matching gold belt at his waist still gives his torso an attractive taper. Tailored, royal blue dress pants and spotless black shoes finish the outfit. Even his hair is impeccable - loose around his ears but tidied with the right amount of wax - all thanks to his tireless stylist. McCree makes a mental note to put through the paperwork to give the woman a raise this year. He’s certain that it takes no small amount of skill to work magic on his bedraggled self day after day.

Swigging at last on the saccharine coffee that Hubert hands him, McCree turns from the beverage table and takes stock of the nearest points of exit from the room, feeling vaguely like a sorry rendition of Cinderella who can’t wait for the first stroke of midnight. However, before he can take his third step towards the rococo arch of a nearby doorway, a voice calls out behind him:

“Commander McCree!”

Recognizing the voice, McCree fixes a stiff smile on his face and turns around out of reluctant obligation.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour: Secretary-General Romilly,” the commander greets. _As well as his entire entourage._

Jules Romilly, the newly-minted Secretary-General of the United Nations approaches, shepherding in his wake a small herd of photographers, bodyguards, and avid ass-kissers posing as foreign dignitaries. Before McCree can get another word in, the French man holds him by the shoulders and leans in to quickly press his lips on both sides of the rigid commander’s face. There is a peppering of rapid camera flashes that momentarily blinds him over the other man’s shoulder.

“Do not tell me you were thinking of leaving before I come talk to you, Commander!” Romilly exclaims with a grin. He steps back, crossing his arms over his tuxedo. “I haven’t had the chance to strike a proper conversation with you all day. It almost seems like you avoid me whenever I look for you.”

 _He’s a sharp one_ , McCree thinks wryly. Recovering from the flashbulb assault, he can see that that Romilly’s sky-blue eyes appear to pierce right through him despite the casual tone of the man’s voice. No real surprises there. According to the nauseatingly long pre-dinner speech earlier, Romilly is nothing short of a political genius. The French national earned his doctorate from Oxford, held office for eight years as France’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, and is now, at the age of forty-six, officially the youngest UN Secretary-General in history. Even McCree is savvy enough to know that a man who has enough ambition to climb here this quickly is no idiot.

The commander sighs and chooses to throw in the metaphorical towel before he makes a fool of himself. “You caught me red-handed, Secretary-General. I stayed away ‘cause I didn’t want to steal your show. Sometimes, it’s rather inconvenient to be this photogenic.”

Romilly laughs - a full and surprisingly genuine sound. “I do not doubt that, Commander. Your consideration is well-noted.”

“Congratulations on your appointment.”

“ _Merci_. I look forward to yours as well. When your term is renewed in September.”

McCree manages a stilted chuckle. “You mean ‘if.’ Renewing for another four years is not something I can confirm just yet. Besides, that kind of decision is also mostly out of my control. ” Acutely aware of their audience, he mentally curses Romilly for bringing up this topic. McCree learned long ago to not fall for the bait of making untimely public statements after being burned by a few too many news headlines. Romilly plays the political game too dangerously well in comparison.

“Oh, you can expect to have have my support, Commander, when the time comes,” the Secretary-General replies smoothly, undeterred. “Even though we have rarely seen each other in person before now, I have followed your achievements leading Overwatch for the past few years. I am impressed by you thus far. This is a great new opportunity to know you better, and I expect to work closely with you for _many_ more years to come.”

 _Blink once, and you’ll miss it._ Catching the subtle timbre of the other man’s voice, McCree finds his carefully structured smile twitching at the corners.

Jules Romilly, he decides, is truly a character who comes on strong in more ways than one.

“Why, I appreciate your confidence in me.” Then, feeling ballsy, McCree banters: “I’ll do my damndest to not blast another crater in the headquarters before September.”

The men and women observing them titter nervously as if they aren’t quite sure if the Overwatch commander is joking or teetering right off his rocker. McCree senses Hubert flitting skittishly around just out of sight, the omnic no doubt calculating the most effective method of intervention and damage control. Romilly looks surprised, his eyebrows raised, but he only laughs again, sounding cleanly amused.

“Ha ha! I hope not. I _am_ aware of the repair bill from the last time.”

“And I hope that’s the only bill you’ve seen.” McCree gives him a mock toast with his mug. “My coffee addiction is supposed to be my little secret.”

Romilly’s eyes twinkle. “I like your sense of humour, Commander.  You have convinced me that going to Washington next week will be enjoyable at the very least if you are also there.”

At this, McCree frowns. “...Wait, _you’re_ going? Why?”

“Why the surprise? Overwatch is meant to act with the approval of the UN for important decisions. I would not be doing my job should I fail to attend.”

 _That’s a highfalutin way to describe holding Overwatch by a leash_ , the commander wants to argue. _NASA’s lunar mission has nothing to do with the UN. Stop pretending to give a rat’s ass._

As if reading McCree’s delayed reply like a book, Romilly’s expression is suddenly more serious. He continues: “I could be sending an agent to Washington, but I choose not to. I take a personal interest in the lunar reclamation project, Commander. And I intend to ensure that we make the right decision on behalf of all the nations of the world. I expect that you and I will come to an unanimous stance on the matter before then.” He smiles, extending a hand. “I look forward to working together.”

 _The bastard._ Backed into the corner, McCree can only resign to shake the other man’s hand as the cameras around them pop and flash furiously.

“...Likewise.”

Before letting go, Romilly draws close again and speaks in a quieter voice in McCree’s ear. “I do not say what I do not mean. Believe me when I say that I _want_ us to be on the same side.” He claps McCree’s shoulder amicably and then releases him. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander. We’ll talk again soon.”

McCree nods, holding his expression neutral. “Goodnight, Secretary-General.”

Gaze lingering, French man eventually turns around and then instantly shifts gears to greet another official waiting for attention in the wings. His entourage follows, like a well-dressed school of fish.

Leaving his half-cup of coffee on a table, McCree stalks towards the exit before someone else can come up to him to make small talk. Hubert falls into pace behind him. They depart quickly out the ballroom, through the vaulted lobby, and out the door into the moonlit garden. The omnic calls down their hovercar. McCree doesn’t say a single word until he’s buckled into the back seat and the soundproof doors of the vehicle slide shut around him.

“Fucking _hell_.”

Scowling, McCree presses a hand to his forehead and slides it down his face, feeling inexplicably feverish.

In the front driver’s seat, Hubert starts the engine and catches his commander’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“All things considered, I thought you did rather well tonight, sir,” his assistant offers. “A tad bit precarious with your… ah… witticisms, but nothing that would give your publicity team reason to overly reprimand. The Secretary-General seems to like you.”

McCree grunts, still rubbing his face. “Thank you, Hubert,” he says with a note of warning.

“In fact!” the omnic continues, not catching the drift. “If I hadn’t left my medical endocrine sensors on by accident, I would have never believed... “

_“Hubert.”_

“...that such a man would experience a testosterone influx as a reaction to your airborne androstenol!”

“God, Hubert. I don’t want to know what that even _means_.”

“Do not worry, Commander,” his assistant replies solemnly. “Your reciprocating hormonal activities are protected by the highest privilege. I am a professional, after all.”

The hovercar lifts off amid a plethora of uninhibited threats and curses. They fly off into the night sky as the bells from the city heralds in midnight.

Some time later, when McCree retires into his own room at the headquarters, he hangs his coat by the window to air out the faint scent of French cologne that still clings to the lapels.

 

\---

 

That night, McCree dreams of Hanzo. The six-year-old memory runs like a holotape in his sleep, still fresh and vivid in its hundredth replay...

It was three months before the end of the War, not that they knew it at the time; the fight had seemed to go on forever. Their team of six had retreated at dusk from the outskirts of Murmansk, Russia. Talon aircrafts had chased them in the dying light, but Overwatch boasted the better pilot; Lena lost the pursuit at low altitude over the mountains of Kazakhstan. That was also when their luck ran dry and the cockpit started to smoke under flashing hazard lights. Despite the risks, Ana made the call for the detour to western Mongolia.

They hadn’t wanted to stop there. The old, underground safehouse was direly dilapidated and rank with stale air and refuse. McCree begged off to secure the outside perimeter and keep watch while Ana directed Hanzo, Genji, and Aleksandra to work on starting the generators. Lena was still busy inside the grounded transport, running diagnostics with Athena to fix the glitching satellite navigation. Until all the systems came back online, the team would be camped here for at least the rest of the night before continuing on to Nepal.

Up on the surface, the night air was dry and bitter cold, but McCree could at least _breathe_. After taking a piss in a clump of grass, he strolled in the opposite direction of where the transport was parked, teasing a slightly bent cigar between blood-caked fingers. At the top of a knoll, he stopped and then sat down. There was dirt and desert grass as far as the eye could see and, above the distant, shadowed hills, the darker black of the sky glittered, celestial. The longer he looked, the brighter the stars became. At length, the vast band of the Milky Way emerged, bridging two horizons of the Mongolian plain.

An hour passed. Maybe two. McCree waited out the shift on his back, cocooned in his less-than-windproof serape, watching the sky. When he finally heard the footsteps, he was almost asleep. Hanzo’s silhouette appeared above him, blocking the moon.

“I thought you stopped smoking.”

McCree sat up slowly and pulled the cigar from his lips. “You’re free to check - it ain’t lit.”

Something light dropped into his lap: an emergency windbreaker, still stiffly creased from lack of use. McCree was nevertheless grateful and traded the serape for the jacket. Hanzo joined him on the knoll, sitting just far enough that McCree couldn’t hold him around the shoulders if he wanted to.

“The generators are running and the bunks are cleaned. Go inside and sleep. I take the next shift.”

“Not yet,” McCree decided. “I’ll keep ya company for a bit.”

Hanzo didn’t reply. They sat in an extended silence. The gunslinger continued to fiddle with the cigar: smoothing it, spinning it, picking at its wrapper. He was fairly certain that Hanzo was aware of the motions and choosing to not comment. But two could play at that game.

After what seemed like ages of just sitting in the dark, Hanzo was the first to forfeit: “How can you act like nothing has happened?”

McCree stilled, then pocketed the cigar. “Nothin’ I got that’ll help the plane take off faster. I’m content with waitin’.”

“You know what I mean, Jesse.”

“Do I?” He glanced at the reticent archer, but the man’s face was in shadow. “I don’t reckon I’ve really understood most of the words you’ve said to me over the past two weeks. And believe me, there hasn’t been a lot. I’ve kept track.”

Beside him, Hanzo shifted, but he didn’t look up. “You know why it had to happen.”

“I do,” McCree gritted out. “And that part sucks the most.”

He didn’t know if it was pity or pain that caused the other man to move. Either way, the archer slid closer without a word, his windbreaker crinkling, and suddenly they were shoulder-to-shoulder again. _Like old times._

“You don’t make it any easier either, Hanzo,” McCree grumbled, folding his right hand tightly into the warmth of his armpit in an act of self-restraint. “You keep doin’ that, and I go three steps back each time. At this rate, don’t blame me if I can’t help myself from kidnapping you and then running away with you from it all.”

The other man hummed, sounding faintly amused. “Where would you run to?”

“Dunno. Anywhere. Everywhere. Take you to the goddamn moon if I have to. Somewhere _you_ can’t run from. I’d confiscate your bow and arrows first - can’t allow you none o’ those. If you try to tackle me for my gun, I’d wrestle you down since I’m obviously the stronger one. Then I’d hog-tie you, pick you up all bridal-style and start runnin’ blind before the others can figure out what happened. Wouldn’t matter to me where we end up as long as we get to the same place together.”

“That’s a nice dream.”

McCree grinned wryly. “Tchhh. Go easy on me, partner. Let me believe it’s possible while I still can. Maybe it’ll hit me one day, by the time you have kids. If you teach ‘em to say ‘Uncle Jesse,’ I reckon I could begin to forgive you.”

“...Thank you.”

Then, light as a feather, a fleeting pressure touched his cold cheek - a kiss that came from nowhere.

A feather’s weight was all it took to tip McCree over the edge of the long, familiar drop. Throwing all caution to the wind, he turned and tilted his head with practiced ease, kissing the archer full on the lips.

Immediately, Hanzo froze and drew back. “Stop.”

The gunslinger barked a laugh. “But you started it, sugar.” Still heady from the rush, he cupped Hanzo’s jaw and drew him in again - a deeper second kiss - aggressive and emphatic. The half-hearted resistance from the other man was like fuel for a dying fire. He _needed_ this. They both did. It was too early to say goodbye just yet.

“If we keep doing this,” Hanzo gasped against his lips, catching breath, “when does it end?”

 _Never_. McCree pressed their foreheads together and took a long, shaky breath, relishing the sensation of Hanzo’s wind-blown hair tangling with his own.

“Soon. Tonight. I promise. But until then… Last one.”

He surged forward - a third kiss. This time, McCree felt Hanzo’s fist gripping the front of his jacket, and then softening lips finally parted for his begging tongue. The cowboy groaned as the wetness of Hanzo’s mouth sent a fierce jolt through him to his core. For that moment, hidden in the dark, he pretended it was just them in the world. There was no war. No blame. No family-bound duty. Only two lovers witnessed by nothing but the moon and stars.

Minutes later, when they pulled apart, it was Hanzo who continued to hold them close. A hand ran along McCree’s face, through the beard, and tugged the strands gently. And then, a sly, whispered smile:

“Last one...”

 

\---

 

“Am I fucked yet, doc?” McCree asks, staring morosely at the ceiling.

“Not quite, Commander.”

“I can’t seem to get the addiction out of my system.”

“You’ll survive just fine.”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “Good. Wasn’t ready to give up just yet.”

“...Nevertheless, I do not encourage you to carry on in this way.” At her desk, Angela Zeigler flips a page on the holoscreen, examining the blood test chart. “Your readings are just short of abnormal, and you are at an age where you risk diabetes with every chance.”

“I find that very objectionable, y’know.” He pouts. “We’re the same age, Angie. Why do _you_ never have these problems?”

The Director of Medical Research turns in her chair and glances over at him, her long blond ponytail swishing, looking as young and radiant as ever. Some things truly never change. “Exercise, lifestyle, and a _healthy_ diet. I could teach you… again. But somehow I doubt this will be the time you heed my advice.”

McCree scratches his nose, considering. “Well, you know what they say about old dogs. And if I’m gonna kick the bucket one day, I might as well enjoy my coffee and desserts the way I like ‘em. At least I quit smoking.”

“And it is your lungs, not I, who thanks you.” She stands, reaching across the table for the mechanical arm that lies under a glowing bed of ultraviolet light. “Sit up now, so I can put this back on.”

Complying, McCree lifts himself off the examination table into a sitting position, legs swinging off the side. It’s a bit awkward, without the support of a left arm. He has gotten so accustomed to the balance supplemented by the ever-present prosthetic that its lack is disorienting.

He turns his gaze away as Angela approaches his left side, the freshly sanitized limb in her hand.

“Don’t move,” she reminds him.

“Nrrrg.” He winces as the cold metal grazes the stump of his elbow. “Easier said than done, doc.”

“Relax, Jesse. This should be nothing new.” Patting his bare shoulder lightly, she soothes: “Tell me about last night. How was the Secretary-General’s dinner event?”

“Oh, it was just peachy- _fuck!_ ” The arm clamps into place. Bolts and plates slide against a buffer of synthetic tissue, but McCree still feels the sharp pressure against his sensitive skin all the same. Reattachment is a feeling he’ll never get used to. He presses his eyes shut and swallows another expletive. “...The guy’s a clever one. Too smart for his own good. He’ll start getting in my hair before long, I’m sure.”

“Mmm... I spoke to him once, three years ago at a WHO summit in Paris. Jules Romilly is certainly very intelligent. And quite handsome, in my opinion.”

McCree opens his eyes in spite of himself, eyebrows raising. Angela is still working on his arm, blonde head ducked, but he can see the wash of colour that pinks her cheekbones.

“Is _that_ your type, Angie?” He guffaws, almost distracted completely from the electric tingle of pinprick nerve endings flaring to life in his elbow. “Why, if I knew sooner, I’d have taken you with me last night so the guy could flirt with you instead.”

It’s his doctor’s turn to raise her eyebrows. She glances up at him, mouth hanging slightly open. “Oh! The Secretary-General flirted with _you?_ ”

“Hey, don’t say it as if I wasn’t on Forbes’ one-hundred most eligible bachelors list last year.”

“It’s just that…” She giggles, shaking her ponytail to and fro. “Never mind. I should have expected this. It’s like they say: the good ones are always gay.”

McCree grins. “I don’t know for certain ‘bout Romilly. But thanks for the compliment.”

With a final firm compress, she secures the arm tightly in place. The grille along the carbon fiber underside hisses, depressurizing, locking in the vacuum.

“There. You’re all done!” She stands up and snaps off her latex gloves, tossing them in a trash bin. “We won’t need to do that again for another three months, but please put the date on your calendar next time. I don’t have time to come after you for every physical.”

He flexes the mechanical arm, then tests the individual joints of each metal finger. “Damn, it feels good. Thanks again, doc. I’ll get Hubert to schedule the next appointment.”

Hopping off the examination table, he picks up his dress shirt and starts putting it back on. Being able to work tiny buttons again with the freshly-tuned prosthetic is nothing short of bliss. Tucking in his shirt, McCree watches as Angela begins to clean up and put away supplies in the cabinets along the wall. It takes a few moments before she takes notice of him again, a look of surprise on her face.

“Is there something else, Jesse?”

“Yeah…” he begins. The commander leans back against the table and tries to sound casual. “Guess I got a… question for you. A medical question.”

She shuts a drawer and then turns to fully face him. “Alright. Go on.”

“I’ve been wonderin’. Just hypothetically speaking, of course... What’s my health like, at my age, for a trip to outer space?”

“Space?” Angela blinks, clearly taken aback. “I suppose that depends on a few factors, and of course you’d first require extensive, professional training. How much time in space are we talking about?”

He shrugs, avoiding her eyes. “Oh, I dunno. It’s all hypothetical… But, ah, a year? Maybe more?”

“A _year?_ I… I would say that at your current condition, you should be healthy enough for such a venture. But of all the things you could have asked me, Jesse… What is going on?”

“Ahh, don’t worry about it, Angie.” McCree waves a hand in the air. “Just a passing thought. I don’t think it’ll happen to me. Not in this life, at least. I was askin’ out of curiosity.” _Just in case._

Angela looks unconvinced, but she only sighs. “You can keep your secrets for now, but don’t forget: I’m both your doctor and your friend. I _will_ know eventually.”

McCree chuckles. “God, don’t remind me. It’s embarrassin’ enough that I have to update you on my lack of a sex life every three months.” _Which reminds me..._ He clears his throat, feeling his humour palpably fade as the memory of last night’s dream swims into his mind. “I got another medical question of sorts for you.”

“Yes?”

He takes a nervous breath, and then cuts to the chase: “What do you know about passing down spirits by procreation?”

This time, despite the vagueness of his words, recognition and understanding flits across Angela’s face. She give him a small smile and replies, voice quiet: “...Such strange questions you have today, Jesse. ‘Spirits’ and ‘procreation’ - I have not heard a patient use those two words together in the same sentence for several years.”

 _So Hanzo did ask her._ His heart thumps achingly as Angela continues.

“There are some things that I can never know. Some things are beyond research or science, beyond our limited human understanding.” The doctor’s pale eyes gaze out the window, where swathes of white cloud drift stratospheric in the summer sky. “We know that spirits exist. You and I have both seen evidence of powerful and ancient spirits controlled by some of our close friends. However, how they pass on from generation to generation remains a mystery - a mystery that I can likely never study. Are they passed through DNA? Through blood? Through love? Through the human construct of family? Most of these concepts cannot be studied by any empirical formula. I was unable to answer these questions last time. I still cannot answer them. I’m afraid that I’m the wrong doctor for a second opinion on this topic. Although…” She looks back at him, sympathetic. “I presume that directly asking the right person is not an option for you.”

“Yeah. God, Angie. I...” McCree swallows. “Thank you. You already answered a lot. You know me too well.”

“Your doctor and your friend. Remember?” she quips brightly. “Sometimes, I favour to be the latter just a little more. Now don’t you still have a meeting to go to, Commander?”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives her a quick hug and then hops towards the door. Somehow, the doctor seems to have cured an ill that he didn't know carried from the previous night; the weight of the dream lifts like a warming blanket of fog. “I owe ya one, for that last question. I’ll explain everything to you about the space thing when I get back from the States next week.”

Whistling his way out the door, Angela’s voice chases him all the way down the sunlit hallway: “ _Please_ try to watch your diet while you’re there, Jesse!”

 _At the end of the day,_ he thinks, _some things truly never change._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aug 10 edit: I have _art_ now! Here's a beautiful illustration of [the dream scene, by ayumichan46](http://ayumichan46.tumblr.com/post/148733748807/a-little-thing-i-drew-for-a-part-in-mccrees-dream). Thank you, Ayu!


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